How I Met Your Father
by tiedyedseashells
Summary: '"Kids, this is the story," I finally start, turning my gaze to the living room doorway, where the subject of my story stands, smiling, "of how I met your father."' Molly recounts to her children the long path, filled with love and heartbreak, that ultimately led her to what she'd been searching for all along – her happy ending.
1. Prologue

"Alright, alright. Settle down kids."

Nigel, the elder of the two, props his arms up by his elbows, utilizing my thigh beneath as a cushion. He rests his innocent six-year-old face in one hand, while his other small, chubby hand balls up into a little fist that goes to roughly rub his eyes. An eager smile plays at his excitable lips, as he looks up at me; his wide, child-like eyes encompass the epitome of hope.

Daisy, my youngest, seats herself on the other half of my lap, pulling my arm over her head so that it wraps snugly around her. Only a year younger than Nigel, she's mature for her age – and quiet; almost the complete opposite of her always active brother. If people were flowers, she'd be anemone. _Quiet beauty._ _  
_

"Mommy, tell us a story!" Nigel exclaims in his usual overly excited manner; miniature, childish hands going to curl around my larger ones. Daisy doesn't make as loud a fuss, but she nods, in her characteristic gentle way, her short locks of hair brushing up and down against my arm as she does so.

I smile a little, and wonder how I'd – we'd – managed to create two such entirely dissimilar children. I let my fingers ruffle Nigel's messy hair as I humor him.

"A story?" I switch into mother mode, and the gears in my head start rotating as I ponder what story to tell them.

"I know!" I say in the distinct, knowing voice of an adult speaking to children. Both their eyes light up, gem-like, and another smile tugs at my lips as I bask in maternal bliss.

"What is it?" Nigel asks, ever eager. He's kicking his short legs back and forth in the air, admirably zealous. Daisy gently murmurs out in her usual quiet fashion, following the lead of her brother, as she normally does, "What story are you going to tell us, Mommy?" Her words are carefully and meticulously pronounced, in contrast to Nigel's, which often come out too furiously, leading him to sometimes scramble them up.

"Alright, settle down kids," I come full circle to repeat, aiming it more towards Nigel than Daisy, although her previous action is about as fired up as she ever gets. Their babyish faces turn their attention to me, large eyes wide in premature entrancement. They radiate innocence.

"Kids, this is the story," I finally start, turning my gaze to the living room doorway, where the subject of my story stands, smiling, "of how I met your father."

* * *

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harvest Moon, How I Met Your Mother or the cover image.**

**Author's Note: Hi there! I came up with the premise of this idea a while back, and for a while I thought it sounded ridiculous, but I figured I'd give it a shot. This story will follow Molly down the road that finally led her to meeting her husband, so she'll go through many experiences with the different bachelors along the way. I've already decided that the bachelors she'll possibly be involved with will be: Calvin, Toby, Chase, Luke, Owen and Gill. Who the father is will only be revealed at the end. Hope you enjoyed this (necessary) short prologue - please check out the next chapter, because that'll probably give you a truer reflection of what this story will be like. I always appreciate reviews/follows/likes!**


	2. Chapter 1

"To tell you this story, kids," I say whimsically, in a tone that all parents seem to naturally learn by necessity, "we've got to rewind eleven years."

"That's so many years, Mommy!" Nigel pipes up, seemingly awestruck by how _old _I am. "That's more than how many years I am!" He continues, mouth forming an 'o' shape, while a fiery excitement builds up in his eyes.

"That's right, sweetie," I smile good-naturedly. Daisy takes her turn to speak. "That means you were twenty-one years old, right, Mommy?" She says uncertainly, a thoughtful finger going up to her lips as she pouts ever so slightly, as she does her calculations – what did I say about her being mature? – and looks to me for affirmation.

"Correct," I reply appraisingly, genuinely impressed by her mathematical skill.

"I was twenty-one when I first came to Castanet," I finally start, no longer being bombarded by their questions, "and the path that led me to your Dad was a long one."

* * *

It was autumn when I first met him; two seasons after I'd just arrived on Castanet, tasked with the heavy responsibility of reviving the beat up farm. The leaves were transitioning from their trademark healthy green to pallid brown. Thinking back, it's almost like his reappearance into my life was fated – he arrived, a surge of brown and khaki tumbling into my life.

When I say 'met him,' that's not the truth. In reality, we'd met before. What felt like an eternity ago.

* * *

"So," I ventured carefully, watching intently as the twenty-three year old, sandy blonde haired man brought a glass of pale scotch to his thin, chapped lips; ice cubes in his drink clinking together discordantly; condensation from the glass threatening to rain over onto the bar counter at any moment, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

He laughed carelessly, mockingly, looking at me with juxtaposing kind eyes. "That's exactly the kind of question you'd expect an eighteen year old to ask."

"Well, I can't help it, can I?" I answered defensively, synapses springing to life, the way they did whenever he taunted me in his usual manner, "I am eighteen, after all."

"Yeah." He turned quiet. "And I'm twenty-three."

Silence fell over us, smothering us in an uncomfortable blanket of tension. He finally let out a sigh. "You seem to forget, sweet Molly, that I am a grown up," he smiled, sharply chiseled jaw moving ever so slightly upwards in complement.

"Alright then. I'll reword my question," I rebutted stubbornly, "What do you want to be?"

Calvin smiled again, that smile that seemed so simultaneously elusive yet understanding. He decided to humor me. "I want to go on adventures," he finally stated, a tremor of certainty reigning in his voice. A faraway, dream-filled look glazed over his almost cerulean blue eyes, rendering him momentarily untouchable. He looked over at me, then back into the swirls in his glass. "Not get stuck in one place."

"I'd like that too," I replied mindlessly.

Calvin shot me a sympathetic look, before finishing off his drink and fastening on his tattered brown leather Stetson hat. He stood up, instinctively placing his hand on the small of my back. "Come on kiddo," he led; gently pushing me so I was walking just slightly ahead of him. He let his muscular arm drape itself over my covered shoulder, pulling me closer towards him, before he planted an affectionate kiss on my head. "Let's get you home."

* * *

"How's the dangerously older boyfriend coming along, Molly?" A friend from work had asked – teased – me a week after.

"Calvin's not my boyfriend," I replied, reaching for my standard answer. "It's just a fling to him," I mumbled, trying to ignore the always-reoccurring prickling sensation in my heart. Needles pressing against its skin. "He's only here for a season."

"Don't try to deny it," my friend had retorted, prodding my shoulder in unnecessary chastisement. "He's your first love, isn't he?"

"So what if he is?"

"You know what they say about first loves!" She exclaimed loudly, making me wince. I shook my head to indicate my confusion. She continued, tiresomely, "If it's real, it'll be forever."

I laughed a little mockingly at her. "I think you've been reading too many of those trashy romance novels." She puffed her cheeks out in dissatisfaction, before I went on. "And besides," I said, "forever is a long time."

"Of course it is! That's what's romantic about it," she gushed dreamily. I smiled skeptically at her.

"I don't know," I continued, having no qualms about bursting her little fairytale filled bubble. "Time's got a way of changing things."

"Well, if it isn't the ever optimistic Molly," a coarse, sarcastic voice called out from behind us. I turned, recognizing said voice belonged to my not-boyfriend-not-friend himself, Calvin. He smirked knowingly, one side of his wry mouth travelling up his cheek more than the other; the sides of his eyes crinkling up as he did so – the five years he had over me evident in those lines. I nodded to my friend who hurriedly left us to ourselves.

"What're you doing here?"

Calvin faltered, almost like he couldn't bring himself to spit out the words. It was in that pause – that hesitation – that I realized the reason for his presence. My heart sank, racing down my chest as the arteries, that kept it carefully suspended, proceeded to snap to nothing. "I'm leaving," he finally stated, even though I no longer needed to hear it.

"Oh," was all I could choke out, as I desperately tried to fight back the persistent tears that threatened to spill over my eyes. "Where're you headed to?" _Keep it together._

He smiled, excitement evident. "Don't know yet," he replied honestly, scratching at the back of his head as he did so; an earnest gesture that was just so innate of him. A fiery determination blazed in his eyes. "But somewhere great."

Eighteen year old me couldn't stop the foolish words from tumbling out of my mouth. "What about us?"

He seemed to withdraw visibly, a look of pain – disgust – crossing his face. "Molly," he started wearily, "you knew this was coming."

"Yeah," I finally conceded, tears now making their rapid descent down my cheeks, "I know."

"Come on, kiddo, don't cry," he comforted, as he pulled me into his arms, burying my face in his familiar chest. My infantile impulses led me to believe that this tearful goodbye, this pang of longing that sat decidedly in my chest, could be somehow alleviated by him telling me what I wanted to hear. What I needed to hear.

"Calvin, will you tell me something?"

"Sure," he murmured, his response muffled by my hair.

"Do you…" I mumbled out, a tremor of uncertainty settling on my words; afraid to be voiced because I wasn't sure if I wanted to know the answer, whichever one it may have been. "Do you lov–" I finally found the courage to begin again, heart haphazardly attempting to heal itself mere seconds after it'd been broken. The crashing of chapped lips onto mine cut me off.

It wasn't the kiss that answered me, but the hesitation – the pause – to answer my question. It was his reluctance to answer me with the words I didn't want to hear. It was his deft evading of the question. It was in his hesitation that I again found my answer.

When his lips left mine, he brought them back up to my head, planting a final kiss on my hair as he wrapped an arm around me, for the last time.

"See ya, kiddo."

He pulled away.

* * *

"Molly!" The high-pitched voice of the stout little thing of a mayor, Hamilton, had broken me out of my daydream. I clutched my palm to my chest in shock, furrowing my eyebrows to convey to him my displeasure at his sudden greeting. "Sorry about that, dear," he chuckled, leaving me uncertain about the genuineness of his apology, "I just wanted to let you know that there's a new villager in town."

"Okay," I mumbled out, quickly agitating at Hamilton's undesirable presence, silently hoping that the faster I replied, the faster he'd leave.

"Sorry about this. She's usually a lot nicer," Hamilton seemed to explain to nobody in particular. My shoulders tensed up impatiently.

"What do you mean by that?" I went to retort, offended, "And who are you even talking to?"

I whisked myself around to face him; chestnut brown locks of hair whipping my cheeks sharply as I did so, as if berating me for my superfluous rudeness. Expecting to find a stout old man clad in a pastel blue suit, I was instead met with a much taller, fitter man, donning a linen khaki shirt, its top three buttons – tortoiseshell, traces of shaded browns melding together – left unbuttoned. Sandy blonde hair framed his sharp features, as bright pools of cerulean met my eyes.

As cliché as it sounded, I could have sworn that my heart skipped a beat.

"Molly," Hamilton finally piped up, choosing to valiantly ignore my previous cruel demeanor towards him, "This is Calvin. He's an adventurer who's settling down in Castanet."

"It's nice to meet you," his dry, husky voice, which I hadn't heard in years, greeted me evenly. For a moment, dread washed over me, as I came to the dawning realization that he'd forgotten all about me during his travels.

_Keep it together._

"Nice to meet you, too," I replied waveringly, going to shake the large, calloused hand he'd stuck out towards me.

"Sorry," he suddenly interrupted, before he went on to only confirm my suspicions about his not remembering me, "What was your name again?"

"Molly."

"Ah. It's nice to meet you," he repeated smoothly, as a small smirk slowly crept up his face; before he brought his voice down a notch, so that he almost whispered the next word to me.

"Kiddo."

* * *

"Wow, Molly, you sure make your moves fast," Kathy teased, as she served up our drinks to where Calvin and I sat at the Brass Bar.

"It's not like that, Kathy," I rebutted, trying to suppress the blush that clung to my cheeks.

"Of course," the blonde bar maid conceded, winking at me while Calvin averted his gaze. Her blonde ponytail swished as she sauntered away, glittering under the dim, orange-toned bar light; I shook my head smilingly.

"So," I finally began, precipitously feeling like I was eighteen – heart palpitating precariously, palms sweating unwittingly – all over again, "What're you doing here?"

"I heard the mines are really good here."

"They are," I nodded, willing my galloping heart to be still.

"Never would've guessed that you'd become a farmer," he voiced, an inquisitive gaze being directed at me.

"Why not?"

"You were always so naïve back then," he laughed, lips parting to reveal his crookedly perfect teeth. "Never weak though. So I guess maybe a farmer was the right path for you after all."

"I'll take that as a compliment," I said, indignant.

"It was," he replied, benevolent smile tugging on his – still – chapped lips.

"What've you been up to the past three years?"

"Travelling. Adventuring. Seeing the world."

"So living the life, basically," I teased.

"It's not all it's cranked up to be."

"Why's that?"

"I'm starting to wonder if there's something more."

"More?"

"You know, something more to life. I'm always moving around, seeing new things. But lately, I can't seem to shake the feeling that there's always something missing."

"So why're you settling down here, then?"

He looked straight at me; every synapse in my body sprung to life, just like they'd done three years ago. He still had that effect on me. My heart thumped pugnaciously in my chest.

"I wasn't intending to, actually," he answered solemnly, eyes diverted towards his glass of malted scotch – he still drank that – and large hands noisily tracing the rim of his glass. "Hamilton was just jumping to conclusions."

"Ah," I replied, heart sinking rapidly at the thought of having to bid him goodbye again. "To be honest," I started, afraid to stop because I might not have gotten the rest of my sentence out otherwise, "I don't think I can say goodbye to you again," I choked out waveringly, letting a small, unsure laugh lighten the otherwise lethal severity of my words. I took a big sip of my coconut cocktail, eyeing him warily. Nervously.

_Keep it together._

He shot me a small smile in return. "Well, kiddo," he said, smile still playing dangerously on his lips, "you might be in luck. I'm not going anywhere."

"Why's that?" I asked, unbelieving of how the ever-wandering Calvin could ever conceivably stay in one place.

At that moment, he stared straight at me, azure-cerulean eyes fixed squarely on my amber ones. And in that moment, I stopped feeling like that knobby-kneed, naïve eighteen year old girl who never knew where she stood with this mysteriously compassionate twenty-three year old man that I'd fallen in love with three years back. I was transported back into the moment, and I was twenty-one and he was twenty-six, and we'd grown up – we'd transformed.

But I was abruptly, precariously, spiralling back into our whirlwind summer romance that had been abandoned far too early; and even though he had gotten older and the weight of his travels could be evidenced by the crinkles that neighboured his eyes, he was still Calvin. Still the same Calvin I'd fallen in love with.

He finally spoke, never tearing his gaze from mine. "I think you know why."

* * *

"Kids," I say, relishing their complete enthralment with my story so far, "The both of you are still pretty young, so you might not really understand, but I'm going to give you a piece of invaluable advice now, alright?"

I'm given complete, attentive silence as response.

"Never, never, never," I begin, passion steadily building up in my voice, "try to revive a whirlwind romance."

"Why, Mommy?" Nigel asks in a softly audible voice, utterly uncharacteristic of his usual fiery temperament. I smile kindly.

"Sweetie," I finally caution, hoping with all my heart that they take heed of my words, "every whirlwind romance comes with an expiration date."

* * *

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of Lang Leav's works or How I Met Your Mother.**

**Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed this chapter! All the chapters will probably be about this length as well (I think). For the record, the temperaments of Molly's children aren't supposed to reflect the personality of their father, so please don't think I'm hinting at anything! Please review/follow/like if you enjoyed! **


	3. Chapter 2

"Wait, so you're saying that this Calvin guy, your first love, just pops up again three years after abandoning you?"

"If you want to put it that way."

I sat perched on the edge of the dock of Harmonica Town, short legs dangling freely over. The tranquil ocean breeze wisped my short locks of hair up, strands that had gone astray whisking over my cheeks transiently. The tangy scent of ocean salt pierced the abrasively chilly autumn air. To my right sat Toby, his fair silvery-blue hair mimicking the frenzied pattern of mine. His navy blue over shirt, that he'd recently donned to battle the increasingly icy fall weather, fluttered noiselessly in the wind.

He spoke. "And you guys are dating now?"

"I don't know, actually," I admitted, a blunt needle surging against my uncertain heart, as I voiced the unrelenting thought that hadn't ceased to niggle at the back of my mind ever since the whirlwind of khaki and warm brown had tumbled back into my life two weeks ago. I clasped my fishing rod tighter between my awkwardly gloved hands, the frigid autumn air seeping through to prick at my fingers anyway. "That's the thing about Calvin, I guess," I pondered aloud, wondering if my thoughts would make more sense when thought out verbally, "I never really know where I stand with him," a small smile crept up my lips, a product of my unsolicited reminiscing, "even after all these years."

"Sounds like you should just come out and ask him."

"That's easy enough for you to say," I rebutted defensively, tugging forcefully on my fishing rod, "You've been dating Renee since forever."

"Last I checked, a season and a bit isn't forever," he chuckled gently; a gesture I'd came to know as a trademark of his. A small rosy tint came to rest on his cheeks, gleaming serenely in perfect complement to his fair skin.

"Besides, even if I did ask him, I don't think he would give me a straight answer."

"Why's that?"

"That's just the kind of guy he is, I guess," I sighed, melancholy.

"He sounds like a stand up guy," Toby joked, calmly reeling in a catch. I grinned, punching him lightly on the shoulder to signify my false offense. He remained oblivious to my action, clamping the struggling fish he'd caught in between his large hands, a sympathetic look veneering his jade eyes, before he detached it from his hook and lobbed the flopping Goby back into the ocean.

"Why'd you do that?"

He shrugged casually. "Felt bad for it. It could've been the father of a Goby family. The breadwinner. I didn't want to leave its poor fish family in the lurch."

"You're an idiot," I chuckled, poking my finger against his smooth temple – a result of never having worried about a thing in his life – and promptly proceeded to follow suit, throwing the Goby I'd just reeled in back into the ocean as well.

"Why'd you do that?" He mimicked.

"Could've been the mother Goby," I played along, a part of me beginning to believe in this Goby back-story we'd spun, "I didn't want to separate the mother and father Goby. They deserve to be together, don't you think?"

"Who's the idiot now?" He chortled accordingly, jade green eyes turning into slits as laughter engulfed his face.

"Still you."

* * *

"Wow. I guess they're right when they say you've got to see it to believe it."

I stood on the field of my farm, hands busied with the tedious watering of my fruitfully sprouting fall crops; the sun beat down relentlessly, in spite of the chilly autumn air that periodically breezed needles along my skin.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

The epitome of fall stood by the picket fence that surrounded my field, all warm brown and bronze mingling together. Pumpkins and lattes and dried leaves. Caramel and full moons and wisdom.

"It means that you do good on a farm," Calvin's cool voice called out, lips parting to expose his yellow-tinged teeth, perfect in all their crookedness. He slowly advanced, tossing an ochre-coloured object into my hands as he finally neared towards me.

"It's an amber," he answered my unvoiced question, "Got it from a bunch of stuff I just got refined. It's the colour of your eyes."

"How cliché," I smirked, the mass of the gemstone weighing my perspiring palm down.

"It's supposed to represent courage," he continued, remaining blissfully oblivious to my previously unsolicited thoughtless comment.

"Courage, huh?" I murmured contemplatively. _To hell with it. _

"What are we?" I blurted out, before I could impede myself. My heart quivered in anticipation for an answer I didn't want to hear – although I wasn't sure what it was, exactly, that I wanted to hear anymore.

A sigh seemed to emit itself from his mouth. "C'mere, kiddo," Calvin gestured over to the vacant space next to him. Compliantly, I treaded over to my farm fence, letting it support my substantial weight. I rested my glove-encased hands on its ridges, gnawing apprehensively on the smooth inside of my cheek. I waited for Calvin to speak.

"I'm not going to play games with you anymore, okay? I'm going to tell it to you straight."

I nodded anxiously, waiting for him to continue.

"It's been great being with you these past two weeks," he started, eyes focused on a distant crop of grass, "but I'm not getting any younger."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

His chapped lips parted to emit a barely audible sigh. "It means that I want to get married."

Of all the answers I'd anticipated myself for, that hadn't been an option. An anvil plummeted on my heart, the emaciated arteries it dangled from hacking loose. "Oh."

"I figured that's how you'd react," he responded solemnly, calloused fingers going to slide over mine. "We may be older now, but the age difference hasn't changed," his coarse fingers curled over mine, fragments of cracking skin from the edges of his fingers digging slightly into my palm, "and I can't be waiting around a couple more years for you to be ready."

"I get that."

"You'll always still be a kid in my eyes," he chuckled, squeezing my hand faintly. Warmth surged up my arm.

"I'm not eighteen anymore, you know," I retorted by instinct, leaning closer to him – half for comfort, half to accentuate my point.

"Well, it doesn't really matter, anyway. Let's just enjoy it for what it's worth – for now," he murmured, throwing the last portion in inaudibly.

He never answered my question.

* * *

Calvin slung his arm – clothed in a coffee-coloured leather jacket – over my shoulder, as we entered the Brass Bar; the entrance bell tinkling, fairy-like. We took a seat in a secluded booth, Chase making his languid way over to take our orders.

"Kathy, what happened? Get a bad haircut?" I jested faux innocently to Chase, referring to how he'd seemingly replaced Kathy for the night.

"Bad haircut?" He repeated, offended. A barely conspicuous smile spread across his intense face; his eyebrows furrowed as he glared at the notepad he held in his sylphlike hands, blunt pencil positioned between his svelte fingers. "What do you want?"

"I think I prefer Kathy," I mumbled, turning my gaze to my menu.

"Be careful," the peach-head cautioned, amethyst eyes glaring dourly at me, "Just because we're friends doesn't mean I won't hesitate to poison your food."

I noticed Calvin had turned suspiciously quiet. "Calvin, this is Chase," I introduced, slightly delayed, "We were friends back when we were little kids. I had the bad luck of meeting him again when I came to Castanet," I mocked, lowering my eyelids in exaggerated discontent.

"Hey," Chase interrupted, lightly knocking his knuckles against my forehead, a habit he'd nurtured when we were younger and hadn't grown out of, "I'm definitely going to poison your food now."

I laughed softly, edges of my mouth stretching as far as they would across my cheeks. Chase finally took our orders, leaving us to ourselves.

"Guess we're not the only ones with a history, are we, kiddo?" Calvin chimed teasingly. A trace of jealously laced his words.

"It's nothing like that," I replied casually, "And when are you going to stop calling me kiddo?"

"I told you, didn't I? You're always a kid in my eyes."

"So never, then?"

"Never."

When you reminisce about the past – about past loves – you're filled with a sense of unsolicited nostalgia. You remember only the beautiful things; tend to disremember the ugly memories. You look to the past with rose-tinted glasses.

My eyes scanned over Calvin, and, for the first time, I noticed how the ends of his sandy blonde hair strands were splitting up the middle – a result of improper care over his travels – and new lines now peppered his smiling face. I noticed how his sharp nose sat a little crookedly in the centre of his face, the left nasal lobe slanting down ever so slightly more than the right side. I noticed how freckles sparsely dotted the vast expanses of his face, scattered haphazardly across the horizon between his eyes.

The rose tinted glasses lifted.

The man seated next to me wasn't my oh-so-charming lover. He was a mysterious stranger who always made me feel incompetent, and who never let me know where I stood with him; even when I came forward and asked.

The arm he slung around my shoulders precipitously started to feel foreign, an extraneous weight bearing down on me. Unease wrestled about in my chest.

"Hey, Calvin…" I ventured cautiously, wary of acting on an impulse I might have regretted later, "Are we just kidding ourselves here?"

Silence reigned.

"I don't know, kiddo," he finally replied knowingly, retracting his arm ever so slightly, "I don't know."

"I don't want to be wasting your time," I started carefully, buying time to dictate my choice of words, "and I don't want to waste my time either."

Calvin leaned back in the booth, a resigned hand going to brush over his eyebrows – had that crease always been there? – and rest on the brink of his nose. He smiled nostalgically. "I was wrong, huh?" He questioned, gazing at me intently.

"About what?"

"You've grown up," he nodded, impressed by my pragmatism. He brought his tough-skinned hand to ruffle my hair, but stopped himself half way, leaving it hanging in midair. He retracted his hand unnaturally, crossing his arms to obstruct himself from reenacting the previous scene. Tension floated around us.

"I suppose I have."

"We're not the same people, anymore, are we?"

"Yeah," I replied, letting it sink onto our shoulders, sliding its way down to our untouched hearts. "Yeah."

"But… Maybe for old time's sake," he murmured, before planting a final nostalgic kiss on my head. I no longer felt giggles bubbling up in my throat when he did that – the feeling was instead replaced with a foolishly infantile sentiment.

He pulled away, for the second and last time.

The fog that was my first love lifted, like the morning mist that dissipates as soon as the first ray of sun hits it.

* * *

"You just going to sit there and sulk all night, kiddo?" A honeyed, sarcastic voice called out to me from where I remained, at the booth of the Brass Bar, when Calvin had left an hour ago.

Chase smirked at my slight flinch; internally delighting in his mocking of the nickname Calvin had given me. "Don't call me that," I wrongly rushed out, only giving Chase more incentive to continue his teasing.

He laughed, straight, white teeth flashing as his lips parted. "Alright, alright," he consoled, seating himself next to me, "I'm not about to start talking like some old man, anyway."

"Old man?" I questioned, leaning my crossed arms onto the table top, "Spare some feelings for my tender, sensitive heart here," I joked, a slight smile tugging at my lips, in spite of myself.

He rested an elbow on my shoulder, leaning his head onto his curled up fist, honeyed peach strands of hair falling delicately into the bobby pins that held them back. We sat in snug silence.

"Shouldn't you be working?"

Chase tapped his knuckles against my creased forehead, incredulous smile playing on his rosy lips, "Is heartbreak making you blind? Bar's completely emptied out. The only reason I'm still here is because you wouldn't budge from your seat."

"I'm not heartbroken."

"I know that. A girl who punches like you – it'll take a whole lot more than that to break your heart."

"You still going on about that?" I laughed, the memory of us, when we were six, play fighting in mud resurfacing in my mind.

"My mind won't let me forget it," he drawled sarcastically. Instinctively. "But enough about that."

"Being an adult has its perks," he led, enthrallingly, "We can play new games."

"Yeah?" I questioned aloud, eyes set on the bottle of saccharine apricot-coloured liquor Chase went to retrieve, "Like seeing how much we can drink until the other passes out?"

"Pretty much," he replied, a smirk – his trademark facial expression – gracing his angular features again.

"You still want to play after what happened last time?" I cautioned, referring to the last time the two of us had played, and we'd ended up being unpleasantly awoken by a very amused Hayden. "Hayden never let us hear the end of it," I reminded him, amusement toying at my eyes, "And you know that I'll beat you."

Chase handed me a shot, one side of his lips tugging up significantly more than the other – _smirking._

"Shut up and drink."

* * *

**Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed this chapter! I've made some slight alterations to the previous two chapters (but only in terms of the language, so it'll be fine if you skip re-reading them) because I finally decided on what writing style I wanted to use for this story. Also, Chase and Toby are meant to be Molly's best friends, in case I didn't make that clear enough. If you like this story, maybe you'll enjoy the other one I'm currently working on - _Serendipity_. Please like/review/follow if you enjoyed, I always appreciate it!**


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